No. No, this wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening. It wasn’t supposed to go this way. But what he was seeing wasn’t a lie, and he didn’t have to guess that this was Loamfield’s car.

He didn’t even think. He launched himself down the embankment toward the car. He couldn’t see inside it from his viewpoint. The roof was bent in the middle, warped by the impact. The back of the car looked almost fine, but the front looked like some kind of metal concertina. There was smoke rising from the crushed bonnet, and there was some kind of hissing sound he couldn’t quite understand.

He got to the bottom of the hill, sliding on the mud, and got to the car. He looked inside. Loamfield was in the driver’s seat, his head limp against the seat. His face was drenched in blood but Robin couldn’t see from where. The passenger’s side was empty—and what was more, the door was open.

Robin looked around desperately, into the trees. He couldn’t hear anything except the hiss of the engine. But then—a crunch of leaves and twigs nearby. And he thought he saw a figure through the trees.

He instinctually stepped forward, ready to run. But a spluttering behind him stopped him. He turned to see that Loamfield was coughing up blood. Robin had to think—he didn’t know what to do; he didn’t want to be in this situation. To have to make this call. But—

A small sound answered him. The sound of something igniting. A flame curled out of the crack in the bonnet. And Robin didn’t have a choice anymore.

He pulled open the driver’s side door—it was difficult, as the car’s frame was so badly misshapen, but he managed. Loamfield looked like he’d lost consciousness again. Probably best. Robin looked down at the footwell to see a mess of Loamfield’s limbs and warped machinery. There didn’t seem to be anything wedging him in, which was good for both of them. They had to get away from the car, now.

Robin unclicked Loamfield’s seat belt and gripped him by the shoulders, wrenching him out of the car. Loamfield was obviously back with him, as he screamed out in pain. So did Robin—the small man was a deadweight and it was taking every ounce of strength he had to get him out.

He got Loamfield out and he flopped onto the ground. His legs were bloody, his expensive trousers ripped and soaked. There seemed to be something sticking out of his lower left leg—a small piece of metal.